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Archibald Malmaison

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Archibald Malmaison

by Julian Hawthorne

Author of "Garth," "Sebastian Strome," "Dust," Etc.




INTRODUCTORY.



When I was a child, I used to hope my fairy-stories were true. Since
reaching years of discretion, I have preferred acknowledged fiction. This
inconsistency, however, is probably rather apparent than real. Experience
has taught me that the greater the fairy-story the less the truth; and
contrariwise, that the greater the truth the less the fairy-story. In
other words, the artistic graces of romance are irreconcilable with the
crude straightforwardness of fact. The idealism of childhood, believing
that all that is most beautiful must on that very account be most true,
clamors accordingly for truth. The knowledge of maturity, which has
discovered that nothing that is true (in the sense of being existent) can
be beautiful, deprecates truth beyond everything. What happens, we find,
is never what ought to happen; nor does it happen in the right way or
season. In palliation of this hardship, the sublime irony of fate grants
us our imagination, wherewith we create little pet worlds of poetry and
romance, in which everything is arranged in neat harmonies and surprises,
to gratify the scope of our little vision. The actual world, the real
universe, may, indeed, be picturesque and perfect beyond the grandest of
our imaginative miniatures; but since the former can be revealed to us
only in comparatively infinitesimal portions, the miniatures still have
the best of it.

To preface a story with the information that it is true, is not, therefore,
the way to recommend it. Your hearer's life, and those of his friends, are
enough true stories for him; what he wants of you is merciful fiction.
Destiny, to his apprehension, is always either vapid, or clumsy, or
brutal; and he feels certain that, do your worst, you can never rival the
brutality, the clumsiness, or the vapidity of destiny. If you are silly,
he can at least laugh at you; if you are clumsy or brutal, he has his
remedy; and meanwhile there is always the chance that you may turn out to
be graceful and entertaining. But to bully him with facts is like asking
him to live his life over again; and the civilized human being has yet to
be found who would not rather die than do that.

No; we are all spontaneously sure that no story-teller, though he were a
Timon of Athens double distilled, can ever be so unsympathetic and
unnatural as destiny, who tells the only story that never winds up. We
cannot understand destiny; we never know to what lengths she may go: but
the story-teller we know inside and out; he is only a possible ourself,
and we defy him to do us any serious harm. I trust I am rendering my
meaning clear, and that no one will suppose that in making this onslaught
upon truth, I have anything else in view than truth as applied to what are
called stories. With truth scientific, moral, religious, I am at present
in nowise concerned. Only, I have no respect for the weakness that will
outrage a promising bit of narrative for the sake of keeping to the facts.
Imbecile! the facts are given you, like the block of marble or the
elements of a landscape, as material for the construction of a work of
art. Which would you rather be, a photographer or Michael Angelo? "_Non
vero ma ben trovato_" should be your motto; and if you refuse to kill
your heroine on the Saturday night because, forsooth, she really did,
despite all dramatic propriety, survive till Monday morning--why, please
yourself; but do not bring your inanities to me!

I have now to reconcile this profession of faith with the incongruous fact
that the following story is a true one. True it is, in whole and in part;
furthermore, the events took place in the present century, and within a
hundred miles of London. But let me observe, in the first place, that,
although a true tale, it is nevertheless strange and interesting to an
unusual degree; and, secondly, that this interest and strangeness mainly
depend, not upon the succession of incidents, but upon the subjective
condition--character it cannot be termed--of Archibald Malmaison himself.
This being the case, it follows that the greater part of the objections
above insisted upon fall to the ground. What goes on inside a man must
needs be accepted as it is revealed to us: to invent psychological
attributes does not lie within the province of a romancer. His skill and
power are confined to so selecting and arranging the incidents as to
provide his psychological data with the freest possible development. In
the present case I might easily have devised a stage and a series of
events for Malmaison, which would have brought his mysterious affection
into somewhat more prominent and picturesque relief. But that affection is
itself so absorbing a problem, that the fashion of its statement becomes
of comparatively small import; and I may add that the setting furnished by
nature happens on this occasion to answer all practical purposes tolerably
well. Moreover, I am not altogether a free agent in the matter. The friend
by whose permission I tell the tale is of opinion that no liberties ought
to be taken with its form, any more than with what he is pleased to call
its "physiological characteristics." The main significance of the
narrative being, according to him, of a scientific or pathological kind,
it would be hostile to scientific interests to depart from historical
accuracy in its presentation. From the professional dictum of a man like
Dr. Forbes Rollinson there can, of course, be no appeal, and if I am to
write the account at all, it is but fair that in so doing I should respect
the wishes of him who is the lawful proprietor of it. I have thought it
but fair to myself, however, to begin by offering this explanation. I feel
more or less hampered by the conditions enjoined upon me, and, besides, I
do not agree with Dr. Rollinson's theory of the phenomena. In the present
state of our knowledge, no theory on such subjects can pretend to be more
than hypothetically correct; and my prejudices are opposed to what is
known as the materialistic explanation of the universe. With, all respect
for the validity of science within its proper sphere, I do not conceive
that its judgments are entitled to paramount consideration when they
attempt to settle the problems of psychology. There are mysteries which no
process of inductive reasoning can reach.--The reader, however, will not
be decoyed blindfold into accepting as final either the Doctor's view or
mine; but, after possessing himself of the facts, will be left free to
draw what conclusions he may please.

As regards the matter of names, dates, and localities, Dr. Rollinson holds
that they had better be given at full length; and here I am not disposed
to differ from him. The system of blanks and initial letters was always
distasteful to me; and to use fictitious names in a true story seems like
taking away with one hand what you give with another. Besides, every one
of the actors in the drama is now dead: Dr. Rollinson [1] himself being
the only living person who is cognizant, directly, of all the
circumstances, from beginning to end. In his capacity of physician, he was
the intimate and trusted friend of the ill-fated Malmaison household
during upward of twenty years, and he inherited this confidential position
from his father. He has kindly placed at my disposal a number of his
professional note-books and journals, and in various places I have
incorporated with the narrative some of the information which they
contain. At other times I have inserted minor details of conversation and
incident, and have endeavored to throw over the whole as "fictitious" an
air as was consistent with the conscientious observance of my compact with
the Doctor. And now, without further preface, I will proceed to business.




I.


Archibald Malmaison was the second son of Sir Clarence Butt Malmaison, of
Malmaison, Sussex. He had the odd distinction of being born on the 29th of
February, 1800. His elder brother, Edward, born 1798, died before him, as
will be hereinafter shown. There were no other brothers, but four girls
appeared after Archibald, two of whom died in childhood of scarlet fever,
while the other two grew up to be married. They have nothing to do with
the story, and will not be mentioned again.

The Malmaisons, as their name denotes, were of French descent--Huguenots.
Like many other emigrants, they yielded, in the course of a generation or
two, to a barbarous mispronunciation of their patronymic, which came to be
spoken of as if spelt "Malmsey."

How it happened that the chateau of the Empress Josephine was christened by
the same name, I know not; at all events, the Sussex Malmaisons have prior
claim to the title. The estate, which embraced between seven and eight
hundred acres, lay in that portion of the county which borders upon the
junction line of Kent and Surrey. Colonel Battledown, the Peninsular
soldier, owned the adjoining estate in Kent; while the Surrey corner was
occupied, at the epoch of this story, by the Honorable Richard
Pennroyal--he whose father, Lord Epsom, is said to have won ninety
thousand pounds from Fox in a single night's play. The three families had
been on a friendly footing with each other ever since the early part of
the reign of George III.

Sir Clarence had been an ally of the father of the Honorable Richard in
Parliament (they were both Whigs), and Colonel Battledown, though a Tory,
was such capital company as not only to compensate for his political
derelictions, but even to render them a matter for mutual
congratulation--they so enlivened the conversation! In truth, I suppose
the three gentlemen must have had many a boisterous discussion over their
nightly three or four bottles apiece of claret, and after their hard day
across country.

The Honorable Richard, by the by, was by far the youngest of the three; at
the time of Archibald's birth he was not much over twenty; but he had a
cool, strong brain, and quite as much gravity as his seniors, over whom,
in fact, he seems to have exercised a species of ascendency. Possibly he
inherited something of his noble father's ability--that of playing quietly
for big stakes when all the odds were in his favor. At all events, in the
year 1801 he married Miss Jane Malmaison, the baronet's sister, who was
fifteen years older than he, but who brought him fifty thousand pounds--a
not unimportant consideration to him at that time.

Mrs. Pennroyal has one claim upon our notice, and only one; seven years
after her marriage, at the age of forty-two, she completely lost her
memory, and became rather idiotic, and a few years later contrived to fall
into an ornamental fish-pond, and drowned there before her attendants
missed her. She was buried with much stateliness; but it is to be feared
that few persons missed her even then. She left no children.

Was poor old Jane the first member of the Malmaison line who had shown any
special weakness or peculiarity in the upper story? There was a hoary
tradition to the effect that the son or grandson of the first emigrant had
made some compact or other with the Evil One, the terms of which were that
he (the grandson) was to prolong his terrestrial existence for one hundred
and forty years by the ingenious device of living only every alternate
seven years, the intervening periods to be passed in a sort of
hibernation. In return for this accommodation he was, of course, to make
H.S.M. the usual acknowledgment!

The final upshot of this bargain--as is usually the way in these cases--is
not known. Did the worthy gentleman work his way into his third half
century? And had he, by that time, acquired astuteness sufficient to cheat
the other party to the contract of his due? History is silent; the only
thing asserted with any appearance of confidence is that Sir Eustace de
Malmaison possessed the power of vanishing at will from the eyes of men.
Nay, he would seem to have bequeathed this useful accomplishment to
certain of his descendants; for there is among the family documents a
curious narrative, signed and witnessed, describing how a member of the
family, in the time (I think) of the Second Pretender, did, being hard
pressed by the minions of the German Prince, and pursued by them into the
extreme eastern chamber of his house of Malmaison, suddenly and without
warning render himself invisible, insomuch that nothing of him remained
save his dagger, and the plume which he bore in his cap. This eastern
chamber had, at the time, but one outlet, and that was into a room already
guarded by the soldiery.

The chronicle goes on to say that the disappearance was not final: the
mysterious fugitive reappeared on the third day, in the same spot where he
had vanished, but apparently rather the worse for wear. He was at first
taken for a spirit, and all fled before him; but he, going hastily forward
to the dining hall, and finding a great sirloin of beef set out upon the
board, forthwith fell to, and, in a wondrous short time, devoured the
whole thereof, drinking also a gallon and a half of the wine of Burgundy.
This exploit restored the belief of the household in the material
consistency of their master, and thereupon was much thanksgiving,
feasting, and rejoicing. But the secret of the disappearance never was
revealed.

I give these musty old details for what they are worth; they may perhaps be
construed as an indication that the race of Malmaison had some
peculiarities of its own.

As for Archibald, he was rather neglected than otherwise. He was a dull and
stolid baby, neither crying nor crowing much: he would sit all day over a
single toy, not playing with it, but holding it idly in his hands or
between his knees. He could neither crawl, walk, nor talk till long after
the usual time for such accomplishments. It seemed as if he had made up
his mind to live according to his birthdays--that is, four times as slow
as other people. The only things he did do well were eating and sleeping:
he never appeared to be thoroughly awake, nor was his appetite ever
entirely satisfied. As might be supposed, therefore, his body grew apace;
and at seven years old (or one and three quarters, as the facetious
Baronet would have it) he weighed twelve good pounds more than his brother
Edward, who was two years his senior, though, to be sure, not a specially
robust child.

For the rest, poor Archibald seemed to be affectionate, in a dim,
inarticulate way, though his sympathies were confined within somewhat
narrow limits. He loved a certain brindled cat that he had more than
anything else: next to her, his little baby sister; and oddly enough, he
conceived a sort of dog-like admiration for the Honorable Richard
Pennroyal--a compliment which that personage did nothing to deserve, and
which he probably did not desire. He had also a distinct feeling for
localities; he was never quite at his ease except in the nursery-room
where he slept; and, on the other hand, he never failed to exhibit
symptoms of distrust and aversion when he was carried into the East
chamber--that in which his great-grandfather had effected his mysterious
self-effacement. But the only thing that was certain to make him cry was
to be brought into the company of little Kate Battledown, the colonel's
only child, a year or two younger than Archibald, and universally admitted
to be the prettiest and most graceful baby in the neighborhood. But
Archibald, up to his seventh year, would do anything to get away from her
--short of walking.

In a word, he exhibited such symptoms of a deficient and perverted
understanding as would have gained him--had he been of humbler
birth--the descriptive title of "natural." Being a son of Sir Clarence
Butt Malmaison, he was considered to be peculiar only. The old wives of
the village maintained that he was the sort that could see elves, and
that, if one but knew how, he might be induced to reveal valuable secrets,
and to confer magic favors. But, looking the other way, he was to be
dreaded as a possible (though involuntary) agent of evil; especially
perilous was it, these venerable dames would affirm, to become the object
of his affection or caresses--a dogma which received appalling
confirmation in the fate of the brindled cat, who, after having been
caught by the leg in a trap intended for a less respectable robber of
hen-roosts, was finished by a bull-terrier, who took advantage of her
embarrassed circumstances to pay off upon her a grudge of long standing.
This tragedy occurred in January of the year 1807, and produced a
noticeable effect upon Master Archibald Malmaison. He neither wept nor
tore his hair, but took the far more serious course of losing his
appetite.

The most remarkable part of the story is yet to come. No one had told him
that the cat was dead, and the cat, having adventurous propensities, had
often been away from home for days at a time without leave or warning.
Nevertheless, Archibald was immediately aware of her fate, and even seemed
(judging from some expressions that escaped him) to have divined the
manner of it. He then gave intimation of an earnest desire to view the
remains; but in this he could not be gratified, for they had already been
secretly interred in an obscure corner of the back garden. Will it be
believed that the "peculiar" child hereupon got upon his fat legs, and,
without either haste or hesitation, deliberately ambled out of the
nursery, along the corridor, down the stairs, across the hall, through the
door, and so round to the back garden and to the very identical spot where
poor Tabby had been deposited!

The fact is sufficiently well attested; I am not aware that it has ever
been accounted for. The boy had never in his life walked so far before,
although his limbs were perfectly developed and able for much longer
pilgrimages. He did not resist being led away; but, as has been said, he
neglected his bread and milk, and every few days returned to the back
garden, and stood beside the grave in the cold, looking fixedly at it, but
making no active demonstration whatever. This went on for about six weeks,
and attracted a good deal of curiosity in the neighborhood. At length, in
the latter part of February, Archibald had a sort of fit, apparently of an
epileptic nature. On recovering from it, he called for a glass of milk,
and drank it with avidity; he then fell asleep, and did not awake again
for thirty-six hours.

By this time he was a personage of more importance at Malmaison than he had
ever yet been in his small life. The wise folk who stood around his crib
hazarded various predictions as to the issue of his unnatural slumber.
Some said he would lose what little wit he had; others, that he would
become an acknowledged wizard; others again, that he would never wake up
at all. In short, like other prophets, they foretold everything except
that which was actually to happen; and they would have foretold that too,
if they had thought of it in time.




II.


Archibald awoke at length, and sat up in bed. He opened his mouth,
apparently for the purpose of saying something, but his tongue refused to
articulate any recognizable words. An irregular, disjointed sound made
itself heard, like the vague outcry of an infant; and then, as if angry at
his own failure, he set up a loud and indignant wail, muffled from time to
time by the cramming of his fingers into his mouth.

Whatever else was the matter with the child, it was evident that he was
hungry--as, indeed, he well might be. Some bread and milk was brought to
him, that being his favorite food; but to the general astonishment and
dismay, he did not seem to know what it was, although he continued to
exhibit every symptom of a ravenous and constantly augmenting appetite.
They tried him with every imaginable viand, but in vain; they even put
morsels into his mouth, but he had lost the power of mastication, and
could not retain them. The more they labored, the greater became his
exasperation, until at last there was such a hubbub and confusion on the
score of Master Archibald as that hitherto rather insignificant little
personage should have felt proud to occasion.

Among the anxious and bewildered people who thronged the nursery at this
juncture was a young woman who acted as wet-nurse to the latest born of
the Malmaisons, a baby-girl three months old.

She was a healthy and full-bodied peasant, and as she pressed forward to
have her look at the now frantic Archibald, she held the nursing
infant--the only serene and complacent member of the assemblage--to her
open breast. Archibald caught sight of her, and immediately reached toward
her, arms, mouth and all, accompanying the action by an outcry so eager,
impatient, and gluttonous that it was capable of only one interpretation.
An incredible interpretation, certainly, but that made no difference;
there was nothing else to be done. Honest Maggie, giggling and rubicund,
put aside her complacent nursling (who thereupon became anything but
complacent) and took to her kind bosom this strapping and unreasonable
young gentleman, who had already got many of his second teeth. That did
not prevent him from making an unconscionably good supper, and thenceforth
the only person likely to be disturbed by his new departure in
gormandizing was Maggie herself. Everything being thus happily arranged,
the household dispersed about its business, the Baronet declaring, with a
great laugh, that he had always said Archie was but a babe in arms, and
this proved it!

Dr. Rollinson, however (the elder doctor, that is--father of the present
[2] distinguished bearer of the name), had witnessed this scene with
something more than ordinary wonder or amusement; it had puzzled, but also
interested him extremely. He was less of a conservative than many of his
profession; he kept his mind open, and was not disinclined to examine into
odd theories, and even, perhaps, to originate a few such himself upon
occasion. The question that now confronted him and challenged his
ingenuity was, What was the matter with Archibald? Why had the boy
suddenly gone back to the primitive source of nourishment, not from mere
childish whim, but from actual ignorance--as it seemed--that nourishment
was obtainable in any other way? An obvious reply would be that the boy
had become wholly, idiotic; but the more Dr. Rollinson revolved this rough
and ready explanation, the less satisfactory did he find it. He wisely
decided to study the symptoms and weigh the evidence before committing
himself one way or the other.

The first result of his observations was to confirm his impression that
Archibald was not idiotic. There was a certain sort of vacancy in the
child's expression, but it was the vacancy of ignorance rather than of
foolishness. And ignorant to a surprising degree he was. He had at no time
been regarded as a boy of large attainments; but what he knew before his
strange seizure was, to what he knew after it, as Bacon to a ploughman.
Had he been newly born into the world, he could not have shown less
acquaintance with it, so far as intellectual comprehension went; his
father, mother, sister--all were alike strangers to him; he gazed at them
with intent but unrecognizing eyes; he never looked up when his name was
spoken, nor did he betray any sign of understanding the talk that went on
around him. His own thoughts and wants were expressed by inarticulate
sounds and by gestures; but the mystery of speech evidently interested
him, and he studied the movements of the lips of those who spoke to him
with a keen, grave scrutiny to them highly amusing--except in the case of
his poor old Aunt Jane, who turned quite pale under his inquisition, and
declared that he must be bewitched, for although he seemed to know
nothing, yet he had the knowingest look of any child she ever saw. Herein
Aunt Jane gave utterance to a fact that was beginning to be generally
acknowledged. Whatever Archibald had lost, it was beyond dispute that he
had somehow come into possession of a fund of native intelligence (the
term "mother wit" seems inappropriate under the circumstances) to which he
had heretofore been a stranger. He might have forgotten his own name, and
the mother that bore him; but he had learned how to learn, and was for the
first time in his life wide awake. This was very much like saying that he
was a new boy in the old skin; and this, again, was little better than a
euphemism for changeling. Was he a changeling after all? The sage old
woman whom we have already quoted asserted confidently that he was, and
that, however much he pretended to ignorance, he really knew vastly more
than any plain human child did or ought to know. And as a warrant for this
opinion they brought forward evidence that Master Archibald, having been
left alone one day in the nursery, had been overheard humming to himself
the words of a certain song--a thing, it was argued, which he could not
have done had he known no words at all; and therefore he was a changeling.

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